Endless Envelope
by TomatoBomb
Summary: "Her voice was hollow and untruthful to her own ears, quiet as it was, and to his ears, a deafening dismissal." Post-Ep for 2x11 Beat The Devil. Cal/Gillian.


**_ Endless Envelope;_**_  
Michy; 11.06.10_

_&._

The paper-cut reminded her of that feeling. It reminded her of that fleeting sharpness, the unexpected pinch she felt inside on those numbered days of his. The continual risk he embodied had been taking a toll on her for some time now and she was sure it had shown. He was either too deep in the thrill, too stubborn in his convictions to see it or he did not want to see it, she couldn't decide which was true or which she preferred to believe. And this time, after another brush with death – no, actual death by drowning and being resuscitated over and over – he had come, almost shyly, seeking her out for a comfort he never outright asked her to provide. But she always understood, was always there for him, knew her peaceful disposition and small smiles helped ease his heart even though he never outright said it. But this time, as he stood in front of her, she steeled her expression to give nothing away as he asked her to _grab a bite_. She had to look away as she uttered her pathetic excuse about having _work to do_. He would see right through it, anyone would have. Her voice was hollow and untruthful to her own ears, quiet as it was, and to his ears, a deafening dismissal.

She stood motionless behind the safety of her desk as he turned and left, defeated. She mildly wondered what he would get up to in the hours that followed until the next workday began. She wondered if he would drink, _of course he would_. She wondered if he would smash something, _maybe he would_. She wondered if he would inflict pain to cover his own; _he already did_. She felt guilty for denying him the usual end to a particularly tough day – the ones where he almost dies – but she didn't know how many more days like this she could take, at least being this close.

After her divorce, she had been truly happy sometimes, mostly during daylight hours when everything seemed brighter before the oncoming darkness of the evening hollowed out the shadows in her empty house. She fluttered unconsciously closer to Cal at first and deliberately closer soon after. There was nothing holding them back now except arbitrary agreements about _the line_, no concrete rules. But this case and Helen's words reverberated soundly through her mind, getting involved with Cal would leave her a lonely woman. After this many years, and all their history, how could she be without him? It was better to pull back, retreat, bandage up her accumulated battle wounds and retire from the fight before she was haphazardly struck again.

Of course he didn't mean to; he cared for her very much, she knew. But that wasn't enough. His brazen nature drew her to him but she had to know better than to get too close. If there was anything Gillian Foster hated most, it was being burned, especially if it was preventable. She had learned long ago that deliberate distance lessened the shrapnel and the heat of the eventual explosion, the final downturn. She had to protect her glass composition, temper herself against the whirlwind of emotions Cal brought out in her – admiration, anger, excitement, exasperation, fear, terror, heartbreak..._ love..._

She shut down that mental process as she felt a crack etch its meandering way across her logic of keeping a distance. Her heart quietly pushed her, it's worth it for him, you can weather this. But she was no sculpture, not so adaptable to accept what she wanted, or needed, more given to her self-preservation. But what was she preserving exactly? Intact loneliness, darkness, doubt, fear, longing. There was nothing there worth saving. She was incomplete and no matter how steadfastly she tried to believe it wasn't true, deep down she knew what she should do, what she was supposed to do, what he wanted her to do.

She thought of the metaphor many people used when examining their possessions: what would I grab first in a fire? The photo album, the television, jewellery? What would Gillian take – the fear, the loneliness, the hesitation, the made-up rules? She knew she should light a match and let it all burn. She should walk away unscathed, unabashed, unafraid to continue pushing her way through life, closer and closer. Cal would want that and his recklessness was pushing her towards that eventuality, a cleansing fire. But she could not say for sure that she would not second-guess, that she would not turn back to the burning building and go back for her pride and collect the bricks and mortar of her crumbling defenses. She clung to her reservation in the present so wouldn't she do the same in the future? The future that was unfolding whether she wanted it to or not. She would never know for certain the depth of Cal's feelings for her until she revealed her own, which is why she never much liked poker.

She couldn't know the outcome, seal it up again and send it back. Life didn't work that way. And on this red letter day, his once again disregard for his life, her heart and everything in between had pushed her to the edge of that sharp envelope and almost, almost over. And she could not say with certainty if she would be there for the next.


End file.
